


Firsts

by Shachaai



Series: APH Olympics [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Rio 2016 Summer Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 17:27:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20012074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: Singapore is elated with his country's first gold medal, and America and England have a chat.





	Firsts

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr. This (including the notes) was originally written at the time of the 2016 Olympics in Brazil.
> 
> Another Olympics fic.  
> Singapore have now won five Olympic medals in their history, but Joseph Schooling winning the Mens 100m Butterfly gave them their first ever gold. An American took silver.  
> Fiji won their first ever medal - and a gold one at that - in Mens Rugby Sevens these Olympics. They’re [really](https://www.radiotimes.com/news/2016-08-12/olympic-rugby-sevens-gold-medal-winners-sing-beautiful-fiji-hymn-in-celebration/) [really](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/aug/12/rugby-is-our-religion-fiji-erupts-in-celebration-of-olympic-sevens-gold) happy about it. The GB team took silver.

The recreational areas in the Olympic Village are always busy - why wouldn’t they be, with thousands of athletes, coaches, their support teams, security and site staff wandering about? -, but even so, England still doesn’t expect to be suddenly blindsided by someone flinging themselves at him from the side.

He _especially_ doesn’t expect that someone to be _Singapore,_ whose days of hooliganism had been firmly left behind with his youth in the nineteenth century, wilder nature traded in for a British education, stricter rules and a polite ruthlessness for making money.

 _“Tuan Kirkland!”_ The usually restrained young Nation is nearly _vibrating_ when he loosens his sneak attack/hug on England enough for England to _breathe,_ bright-eyed and flushed with elation behind slightly-askew glasses. England cannot recall the last time he saw Singapore’s composure so abandoned, Singapore so wildly, obviously _happy_ \- and cannot help but bemusedly smile back at his former colony, unable to remain unaffected by the other Nation’s clear and open joy. _“Tuan Kirkland, I got_ gold!”

_Ah._

“I’d heard,” says England, and gives Singapore a smile that’s warmer now he’s not nearly so confused. This isn’t the first time he’s been accosted by gleeful members of the Commonwealth at the Olympics (although Australia’s exuberance means that his brand of joyfully-bestowed ‘affection’ is less likely to be described as a _hug_ than as a roaring _rugby tackle_ ), and very likely won’t be the last, but it’s wonderful for it to be a different face this time. “My sincerest congratulations.”

 _“Gold,_ ” Singapore repeats again, like he’s still having trouble believing it - he probably _is_ -, still smiling on even when England reaches up to brush some of the boy’s tousled hair back into place. (Elation always passes eventually, and Singapore will possibly be a little embarrassed for running around in a less than pristine condition later.) “It’s my first ever gold!”

“I’d heard that too,” says England, amused now. “Are you telling everyone?”

“As soon as I find them,” says Singapore, with a little sheepish look on his face that says he knows he’s being excitable and a little ridiculous compared to his usual self, and is going to continue being so anyway. “Speaking of -” Looking over England’s shoulder, the Nation’s face brightens in a way that reminds England distinctly of times long gone by when he’d looked away from certain former colonies ‘playing nicely,’ and then had to rush in five minutes later to separate brawling children by the scruff of their necks. “Please excuse me?”

England is happy he doesn’t have to play the parental peacekeeper anymore. “By all means.”

Singapore lets go of England and bolts off to whichever poor soul is in the distance, leaving all his British English behind him. _“Oi, toot tanah melayu -”_

The distance explodes into the precise kind of noise that is a small, rich, occasionally sharp-tongued and currently exceedingly excited Nation exploding into the company of the ASEAN.

England is so, _so_ happy he doesn’t have to play parental peacekeeper anymore.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get the opportunity to relish his newfound, re-found, peace, as a heavy _arm_ abruptly slings itself over his shoulder, a very familiar, very loud American voice announcing itself beside his ear:

“Y’know, you kinda look like you just got hit by a _truck_ instead of a hug.”

“…America,” England says, and sighs. He _had_ been looking forward to a quiet(er) evening. “Did you come over here just to provide a better truck impression and make the simile true?”

America just laughs at him, ignoring the insult with all the affability of one who is sitting comfortably at the top of the Olympics medals table by a large margin. “Man, you _suck_ at the physical affection thing.”

“And you, as ever, utterly fail to grasp the concept of _personal space.”_ England’s head bumps into the crook of America’s elbow when he turns to look up at the taller Nation, the cloth of America’s sports jacket and America’s blinding grin narrowing in England’s sight like blinkers. (How does the idiot still manage to smell faintly like fast food burgers when the queue to the on-site McDonalds is, every day, every hour, at least a _mile_ long?) “Did you want something?”

“Nah, not really.” America laughs again, loud and annoying, and England debates putting the sharp point of his elbow into the other Nation’s ribs. “I just noticed you getting jumped on and was gonna laugh, but…” America pauses, glancing back over his own shoulder. Something softens in his expression, making England feel churlish for his violent thoughts, and his honey-gold fringe flops boyishly into his eyes. (England’s fingers twitch with the impulse to brush it back as well, but… that is not his place.) “He’s still pretty happy, huh? Singapore.”

“And rightly so,” England sniffs, aiming valiantly to squash his own sentiment. It doesn’t particularly work. “It’s his country’s first ever gold medal.”

“Yeah…” America looks back down at England, his jaw almost catching England in the head and his fingers tapping thoughtfully on England’s chest. “How’s Fiji doin’; you seen him?”

England _hmm_ s. “His people have declared a national holiday for when the team gets home with their medals.” The country’s first ever medal - and a gold one at that, in the national sport - is a good thing to celebrate. “But I think he’s just happy he can have McDonalds again; he went on a pre-games ban with the rest of his team.”

There’s something very warm and relaxing in America’s smile for a change, the light of it sweeping across England and beyond, to the athletes milling around them both, the little pockets of Nations here and there celebrating their people’s efforts and accomplishments amongst their friends and family.

“I know our athletes and people all have their own personal goals and stuff, but, y’know, as a Nation…” America shrugs slightly, shifting and resettling both him and England. His smile is still gentle, off in the distance. “It’s not so bad coming second when someone else is so happy about being first.”

England stares at him.

And then reaches up to lay his palm across America’s forehead.

America jumps, surprised, and then blinks big blue eyes down at England in confusion.

England can’t help but grin at him, feeling the wicked slash of it move his mouth of its own volition. A quieter evening can wait. “You’ve gone suddenly mature on me. Are you sickening with something?”

Under England’s hand, America pouts. _“Hey -”_


End file.
